Astrid kept a hand on Pen's flank between the seats until we were on the highway. Once Pen was clearly asleep, she settled back and pulled one knee up under her, looking out the window. The sun was getting low. The light moved across her face in pieces as the road turned—gold over her temple, then her cheek, then the line of her jaw.
From time to time, I glanced over at her. She didn't notice. Or she did, and let me look.
I drove to the station Monday morning with the windows down.
The bay was open when I pulled in. Mendoza was hosing the apron. Halsey was hauling the trash dumpsters back from the curb. The whole station smelled like coffee and the floor wax somebody had laid down on Sunday night.
Duke was in the kitchen, already on his second cup, scrolling something on his phone with a piece of bacon held by the very tip of his fingers. He looked up when I came through the door.
"Ford."
"Rhodes."
"You eat?"
"Not yet."
"Plate's there."
He pointed his chin at a covered foil tray on the counter. I lifted the corner. Bacon, scrambled eggs, home fries. Halsey could cook. Like I told Astrid, he was the only reason any of us got fed before noon on shift days.
I made a plate and sat across from him at the counter island.
He waited until I'd had a forkful of eggs. He had a system for these conversations.
"So," he said.
"No."
"You haven't even heard the name."
"Don't need to."
"Brother." He set the bacon down. "I know I said this about Maddy. I know I said it about Cassie. But this one is different. She's a CRNA over at the hospital. Just bought a house on Linden, by herself, twenty-nine years old. She has a dog. She runs. She makes her own pesto."
"Duke."
I'd been arguing with Duke about women for nine months. I'd always had a reason ready. Bad timing. Bad month. The boxes in the hall.
This morning, the boxes weren't the reason.
I knew what the reason was. I'd known since a vinyl couch in a waiting room south of Catskill on a Thursday afternoon. I wasn't telling Duke.
He was a good man. He'd never been cruel about a woman in his life. But there was something about names and brunch and lists that didn't have a place to put what I'd been holding since Thursday. I wasn't going to make Duke find one.
I chewed eggs and felt the absence of the argument I usually had ready.
"You're being quiet," he said.
"I'm eating."
"You're being quiet like a man who's eating and thinking. Not like a man who's just eating."
"I'm not interested, Duke."
He held both palms up. "Alright. I'm done. I am formally retiring from the project. I'll tell Beth you're a closed file."
"Tell her thanks."
